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It was really late, and it was one of those nights where moonlight and the midnight air was Crowley’s only company.
And he was okay with that.
…Mostly.
Whilst stumbling through the cold and empty streets of Soho with a half empty bottle of wine in hand wasn’t on his agenda of things to do tonight, here he was, walking around aimlessly while finishing off his… third bottle of wine of the night? Fourth? He wasn’t really keeping track at this point.
He enjoyed going for these walks, especially late in the evening. The later it was, the less humans he’d be at risk of bumping into. The last time he was in this state walking around the city, some clearly intoxicated stranger with more piercings than he could count (Which he was kind of envious of, maybe he should try out an ear piercing or something) tried to get into a fight with him.
It didn’t really end well for them, considering they walked away from that scrap as a tiny street cat, and not as a human.
Wait… did he ever get around to turning that guy back into a human? …Whoops. Welp, wasn’t his problem anymore.
Going for late night walks also meant there wasn’t the irritating constant chatter of the general public around him. Walks like this when there wasn’t the white noise of the surrounding world in his ears driving him mad made it a lot easier to think.
To process.
To… work through the shit he had gone through in the day.
Except, this wasn’t just one of those days where he was mildly inconvenienced by some twat on the M25 cutting him off.
This was a day that made him want to knock himself out, preferably permanently, in hopes that he wouldn’t wake up.
He didn’t even know how to process what had happened today. How could he? This wasn’t… this wasn’t like one of their usual arguments, where they would have a minor disagreement that would result in them not talking to one another for a couple decades. This was…
This was different.
Meer hours ago, he was prepared to lay his heart bare, to finally put out those three words that had been plaguing his mind for thousands of years. Ones that had been on the tip of his tongue countless times, and yet every time, he couldn’t quite manage to get them out.
For the first time in his entire existence at a certain angel's side, he was ready to get those stupid words out of his mouth. To say that simple, and yet so complicated… I love you.
He scoffed at the thought. It was almost amusing, really. Hadn’t God fucked with him enough? Did they really have to take the one thing he had that gave his life some sort of meaning away from him as well? What reason was there, besides God wanting to be a cruel bastard?
With his current thought process leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, he took a long swig from the bottle of cheap wine in his hand. He didn’t want to drink from his more valuable bottles, not yet at least. He still had an ounce of dignity.
He shouldn’t really pin the entire blame on God, though. Aziraphale made his choice as well. He chose to return to Heaven over the possibility of having a proper life with Crowley, without Heaven or Hell intervening. He made an offer to Crowley that he thought was a golden opportunity, but in reality, it was the worst offer Crowley had ever received.
What made his decision to leave him behind sting even more, was the fact that they both found out about Gabriel and Beelzebub’s relationship together, alongside the– honestly kind of weird but he couldn’t really judge them– secret love they held for each other. In a way, they reminded him a lot of himself and Aziraphale, and Crowley didn’t know how he felt about that yet.
Both him and Aziraphale found out at the same time that hey, maybe this could actually work. Maybe we could finally be together. Just be on their own side, like they had once said they would be. Maybe they could–
(...”If Gabriel and Beelzebub can do it, go off together, then we can–”)
Shit.
Crowley’s footsteps faltered as he fell into the wall next to him, memories of the love of his life and the pained expression he held on his face a few hours prior ramming their way into his thoughts. His arm hurt a bit at the harsh contact he made with the bricks. How lovely! As if this night couldn’t get any fucking worse. He rubbed at the side of his shoulder and groaned in frustration.
“Iss this what you wanted? Is thisss your ‘holier than thou’ stupid… fuckin’... ineffable plan?” He shouts into the sky above, voice slurred and shaky. It wasn’t cloudy tonight, as stars shining in brilliant light painted his view. Maybe he had made some of those, millennia ago. He couldn’t remember.
“Well congraaaatulations! You got what ya wanted! I hope you fuckin’ appreciate my ang– my– Aziraphale– up there more than I could’ve… he wasss all I had left.”
Crowley leaned backwards on the wall behind him he had just used for stability, and took in a shuddering breath, a barely visible fog escaping his mouth as he breathed out.
“ Christ, he was…all I had left.”
Tears were falling now. He didn’t make any move to stop them or wipe them away.
He wasn’t the type to cry much, in fact, he could only remember a few times where he had cried. Funny enough, all of the times where he properly shed tears were all caused by Aziraphale. He really knew how to break people's hearts. Crowley really knew how to pick ‘em, huh?
Crowley inhaled sharply in an attempt to gain some sort of composure, closing his eyes and trying to stand up straight. Considering he had gone through several bottles worth of wine in the past couple of hours, his efforts to compose himself were in vain. The effects of alcohol were wondrous… and annoying as hell. Why couldn’t he just get drunk and forget about all his issues and not have his vision become all blurry in the process?
He didn’t want to sober up, though. Because then he’d have to confront these less than desirable thoughts with a sober mind. And that hurt much more than doing it while he was intoxicated. It’s why the first thing he did once he was granted ownership of his flat again was go to his wine stash, open a bottle, and sob for an embarrassingly long amount of time.
He hadn’t even been paying attention to where he was walking after he left his flat. It was as if he had gone on autopilot, letting his body carry him wherever whilst he drank as much as he could so he could forget the events of the day. And how lucky it was for him, that the alcohol had done absolutely nothing to remedy his frazzled mind or the lingering pain in his chest.
Crowley tried to make sense of his surroundings, which was… kind of a struggle, when his vision was blurry. It didn’t help that the street lights looked as if they were a lot brighter than they usually were. He squinted at the harsh and blinding brightness, and clicked his fingers. In response, the bulb in the streetlight fizzled out, causing the area surrounding it to delve into darkness. That was better.
He groaned in annoyance at his eyesight feeling so out of focus. Alcohol in his system be damned, he wanted to try and figure out where the hell he was, because that building looked oddly familiar. And so did that one next to it… wait, wasn’t that Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death?
If that was Nina’s coffee shop, then…
Crowley gulped, as he slowly turned to his left.
What the…fuck? Why the fuck was he back at the bookshop? Did his body just automatically walk here on a whim because he wasn’t paying attention? That’s…kind of pathetic to think about, honestly. Even after everything that had happened, he still subconsciously felt as if he could default back to the bookshop when he didn’t know where else to go.
It was different now, though. The Bookshop had once been his favourite place on earth, topping his own flat easily. It brought him comfort, though he’d never admit that outloud. It was always the perfect temperature, and no matter how many times he had been in there, it always had that new book smell that Aziraphale was so fond of. He didn’t get the appeal of it, though. Maybe because he wasn’t a book person.
And even though he wasn’t a book person, he still felt at home whenever he was in the bookshop.
Though, he wasn’t entirely sure whether it was the bookshop that made him feel that way, or whether it was the owner that was always within its walls, sitting at that antique reading chair next to a desk covered in pieces of paper with names of books or unfinished poetry written on them, and miscellaneous novels. He was always drinking tea, reading a book that he had already read a dozen times, or listening to a new record of music made by an artist that died hundreds of years ago.
And whenever Crowley would ask what he was reading, or what he was listening to, or what he was up to in general, his face would always light up brighter than any of the stars he had created, with a smile that made him feel weak in the knees. It was truly a sight that would put the best views of the night sky to shame.
And yet, despite all of this, within the last twelve hours, the mere thought of the bookshop, and what he had done when he was last inside, made him feel nauseous. Crowley slowly lifted a shaky hand to his lips, and swallowed down a lump that had appeared in his throat when his fingers gently touched his lower lip.
He had sworn he’d stay away from this side of Soho when he first went back to his flat, and yet, in the end, all it took was a couple of bottles of wine and here he was.
Staring at the building that once felt like home.
A building that now felt unfamiliar to him.
It only made him feel worse, that a place that once comforted him, now felt like it was swallowing his happiness whole. All he could hear in his head was words unsaid that he wished like hell he had the courage to say. He had tried so hard to properly say I love you, to just finally get it out there, and yet, during the last chance he had to say it…he still couldn’t do it. He was such an idiot.
Crowley hesitantly crossed the road and approached the entrance of the bookshop, his hands becoming increasingly shakier the closer he got to the door. As the distance became smaller, he could feel his breathing become heavier. If he had a heart, he imagined it’d be beating out of his chest.
Slowly, he raised his hand and held the door handle, though he made no movement to open it. His shaky grip caused the handle to rattle in his hold. He gritted his teeth and cried out in frustration, collapsing onto the stairs of the front entrance and taking a long swig from his bottle of wine, a small bit of the liquid leaking out of his mouth and down his chin. There were already a few wine stains on his jacket, he made no effort to miracle them away.
“This iss… so fuckin’ stupid. I shouldn’ be terrified to go into some… stupid bookshop.” He sighed, and settled the bottle down next to where he was sat, holding his head in his hands and gripping his hair tightly. He wanted to at least have some sort of composure, but did it really matter anymore?
“Does anythin’ really matter anymore?” Crowley says to himself, voice barely above a whisper. He took a deep breath and glanced upwards at the cloudless sky once more. Somewhere up there, Aziraphale was probably going through a bunch of old and boring files. Or having a meeting with those other stuck up archangel assholes. Either option wasn’t great to think about.
He didn’t belong with those twats with their heads in their asses. He was too nice. Or well, he had thought he was too nice. But that was before he was left behind all on his own, left to wallow in his own self pity on the steps of a bookshop entrance. Crowley leaned back onto the door and gently closed his eyes.
He just wanted to fucking rest. To relax, to stop dealing with the waves of self hatred that had been crashing down on him in the past few hours. He had always dealt with self deprecating thoughts, but he didn’t usually entertain them that much. It was different now that he was really alone, for good this time. The thoughts had doubled.
And every single one of these thoughts echoing in his head sounded like Aziraphale’s voice, as if he was talking to him.
You’re not good enough for him the way you are. He wanted you as an angel, why couldn’t you have just agreed?
“Just…shut the fuck up.” Crowley muttered to himself, as if he was conversing with someone.
You brought this on yourself, you should’ve just bit the bullet and said yes. Maybe then he wouldn’t hate you. Maybe then, he’d still be by your side.
Crowley felt tears welling up at the corners of his eyes for the second time that night.
Maybe then he’d love you.
Crowley’s chest tightened as it became increasingly harder to breathe.
Fucking hell, it felt as if someone had a grip on his throat and refused to let him get any sort of air in or out. Tears began to trail down his face once more, leaving trails that felt as if they burnt his skin. He had already dealt with burnt skin before, he was used to it by now.
He really didn’t know how much longer he could take this bullshit. This…crushing feeling that felt as if his heart had been ripped straight from his chest (if he had even had a heart), felt as if someone with a grudge had him in a desperate chokehold in hopes that’d he’d just kick the bucket and–
Unexpectedly, the door that he was leaning back on and holding him upright swung open, catching him completely off guard, causing him to fall backwards and onto the floor. Ouch. He grunted on impact, and rubbed at the back of his head. The air was certainly knocked out of him, considering it was a bit easier to breathe now. At least there was one positive.
“Mr. Crowley! What are you doing down there?”
Crowley blinked once, twice, as he adjusted to the lights of the bookshop shining directly in his eyes. He could feel a headache forming. Of course, just his fucking luck. What was with this night and just dealing him blow after blow? God was just having some sadistic fun at this point. They had to be.
There was a brief silence, before he finally remembered there was someone trying to speak to him.
“Wuzzat?”
“Are…are you okay?”
“Ngk. Just fine.”
“Then why are you on the floor?”
A beat passed. “Felt like it.”
A worried look appeared on the newly appointed bookshop owner’s face. What was their name again? Muriel? That was it, right? His mind was in a very messy state right now, he couldn’t even remember what he had for breakfast this morning, if he had even eaten anything in the first place.
“Do you want to come inside?” Muriel asks innocently, gesturing backwards over their shoulder.
Crowley overdramatically rolled his eyes and grunted as he made the effort to lean forward and sit upright, pulling his glasses down from his forehead to be in front of his eyes like they usually would be. Muriel frowned at his hesitance to answer.
“It’s certainly a lot warmer in here than it is out there. I can make some tea! Or another drink, whatever you want! I haven’t personally tried tea yet, so I wouldn’t know how to make it outside of the instructional books Archangel Aziraphale would keep, but–”
He flinched. “It’s– it’s just Aziraphale, you don’t hafta– put Archangel in front of–”
Muriel's bright smile dimmed slightly. “Oh! Sorry, I just– don’t really know what formalities I should use, considering he’s the new Supreme Archangel, I figured there’d be–”
“Ugh, what a joke.” Crowley scoffed, interrupting Muriel’s words.
Supreme Archangel. Christ, that was a title he never would’ve even considered would ever be linked to Aziraphale. Not in a billion years. He didn’t even think he’d entertain the mere possibility of going back to Heaven if they ever offered it, considering Crowley turned down Hell’s offer for him to work for them again with no punishment as soon as they made the offer.
“I…don’t believe I told any jokes.” Muriel replied, sounding confused by Crowley’s words.
“I didn’t tell any–” He sighed, annoyed. “--It’s jus’… crazy to me that he’s the ‘big bad Supreme Archangel’ now. Can’t believe I wasss holdin’ onto the hope that he’d says– said no. Or at least… said he’d think ‘bout it.”
Muriel made their way down the steps, and leaned down to take a seat next to Crowley. When he made no move to object to Muriel’s presence at his side, Muriel crossed their legs and attempted to make themself comfortable on the hard concrete that was not meant to be sat on in the first place.
“But... I don’t understand.” Muriel started with furrowed brows, looking away from Crowley to stare up at the sky above them. “I, uh… thought most angels would give up anything to have such a position. I know I would, it would certainly beat being all alone as a Scrivener for thousands of years!”
He knew that Muriel, alongside most if not all of the angels, had no clue how toxic the Heavenly higher-ups actually were, or they were clueless to how toxic heaven was in general. He knew that he should give them the benefit of the doubt because of their innocence regarding the issue at hand, but…he couldn’t help but feel annoyed. Sue him.
“Trust me, while bein’ a leader of Heaven might seem all cool n’ shit, all they do is ruin lives n’ attempt to end the world. They screwed it up last time, can’t believe they fuckin’ tried it again.”
He grabbed the bottle of wine next to him that was just begging for another sip, and pressed it to his lips, the cold liquid slipping down his throat was almost…soothing, somehow. He didn’t question it. Muriel watched intently as he sculled what was left of the bottle. Their stare was a bit… unnerving, but he’d let it slide for now.
“I didn’t think angels or demons would want to ever voluntarily get drunk.” Muriel stated, changing the topic as they remained transfixed on Crowley. “From what I've read about it, it doesn’t seem like a… fun experience.”
Crowley smirked into the bottle as he finished off the rest of the wine, looking down at it to read the old label that was beginning to rub off. It was marketed as being red wine, though it didn’t really taste like it. That’s what he got for choosing to drink the cheap crap instead of the proper aged bottles he had kept safe in his flat.
“Weeell… the more shit life throws at you, the more you’d wanna just… get drunk n’ forget everythin’.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and almost immediately, the bottle was filled to the brim again. One of the many delights of– in a totally responsible way, mind you– using your miracles, was having free alcohol refills. “And trust me, this day hasn’t been… the best , i’ll tell ya what.”
Crowley lifted the newly filled bottle of wine to his lips…
“Is it because of that conversation you had with Aziraphale before he went to Heaven?”
…And almost immediately after the wine entered his mouth, he spat it all out.
“Wh– Wot? What’re you talkin’ about?”
Muriel, still seemingly shocked by Crowley spitting wine everywhere, regained their composure. “Uhm– I was, uh… watching from the window. I couldn’t hear anything, but I did see you and Archa–” They paused for a moment. “…Aziraphale, talking to one another.”
Breathing suddenly became a bit difficult again.
“...How much of that did you see?”
Muriel went quiet for a moment. “Uhm…right up until you… stormed out of the bookshop.”
The silence that followed Muriel’s answer was deafening.
Of fucking course– It was just his luck that Muriel had to see that entire interaction. He had thought it was just Aziraphale seeing him in that way– arguably the most vulnerable he had ever been– but of course. Of course! God would never give him a fucking break. He really was asking too much of them.
“Oh, Christ. ” Crowley mutters under his breath, downing more wine to prolong a response whilst he figured out what the fuck to say to that. What the hell was he supposed to say? ‘ Oh, sorry, you weren’t supposed to see me pouring my heart out to the love of my life and finally kiss the fucker after wanting to for centuries, that was meant to be private buddy.’
Muriel fiddled with the cuffs of their almost blindingly white coat (Which, seriously, how did almost every single angel dress in the exact same way–) most likely feeling anxious about his silence and immediate choice to drink more wine in response to his final conversation with Aziraphale being brought up.
“You and, uhm…Aziraphale, you were… friends, weren’t you? From what I remember, you were both assigned to Earth at the same time.”
Crowley huffed. Friends. What a joke.
“You could say that.”
“And that, uh…when you…uhm…”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “Spit it out, won’t you–”
“--You kissed him, didn’t you? I…read about it, in, uh…the book you gave me, alongside a few others.”
Crowley’s breath hitched at the memory of Aziraphale’s lips pressed against his. How gentle it was, and yet, how desperate it had been. One fantastic kiss and it’ll all be good. That had been what he’d said, right? Then why didn’t it work? Why didn’t his angel stay ? Romance movies had lied to him. A kiss didn’t fucking solve anything, as much as he wanted it to.
“That I did.” He finally replied, trying to keep up the small amount of composure he had left. He wasn’t about to break down in front of an Angel he barely knew, nor did he want to. He didn’t really plan to get close to an angel ever again. Not after the last one.
“Why are you bringin’ this up?” Crowley asked, sounding genuinely exasperated. “Doesn’t matter anymore. He left, ’m still here. Whatever–”
“Do you love him?”
Crowley froze on the spot. “ What ?”
Oblivious to the anger in Crowley's tone, Muriel continued. “I don’t know much about love, considering relationships were uh…always looked down upon in Heaven, but…a kiss is a show of love, isn’t it? Whether it’s platonic or…or romantic. And the way you and Aziraphale, uhm…”
Crowley lost his grip on his bottle of wine as it spilt all over the pavement, causing Muriel to be caught off guard and stop speaking. He didn’t really care, a bottle of wine spilling was the least of his problems.
“You are treadin’ some– some mighty thin ice here, angel.” Crowley hissed, sliding his glasses off to look Muriel directly in the eyes without his barriers being up. Muriel seemed surprised by the sight. “What happened between me n’ Aziraph– it’s– it isn’t– that is none of your goddamn buisness, alright?”
Muriel seemed taken aback. “Oh, of– of course! Gosh, I'm sorry for overstepping, I didn’t mean to, I was just–”
“--Was just curious? Yeaaah…all your people are. Curious ‘bout thingsss… that never concer– concor–” Crowley took in an annoyed breath. “--That you were never involved in.” Crowley stood up, wobbling a bit in the process, and walked over to the spilt wine bottle to pick it up. “Just…leave it. What happened, it– it doesn’t– doesn’ reaaally matter. Not anymore, anyways. It’d be better for… the botha us if you just left it alone.”
Muriel solemnly nodded. “Right. Of course.”
Crowley quickly put his glasses back on before Muriel settled their eyes back on him. He only took them off to try and seem more intimidating, to be honest. He didn’t know whether it worked or not, but…eh, he didn’t care about being scary anymore, really. He just had a point to make.
When Crowley started walking away without a word, Muriel quickly got up onto their feet as well. “Where are you going?”
“Back to my flat. I needa sober up. And…sleep, for a few months. Maybe a year. Dunno yet.”
Muriel looked as if they wanted to object, but decided against it. “All– alright, uhm…take care, Mr. Crowley.”
He didn’t bother to correct Muriel on the whole ‘Mr’ thing. He didn’t even bother to look back at them or the bookshop once he started walking away. He was already putting himself through enough coming back to the Soho area alone, being near the bookshop was pushing it.
Maybe it would be a good idea if he just never left his flat, not after what happened tonight.
…The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to make that year-long nap a few decades longer.