Chapter Text
“Don’t bother.”
Crowley could hardly believe that was the last thing he said to Aziraphale.
He noticed that the angel usually had three tones of voice (he’s bored, he wants to share information as soon as possible, or something is wrong), but this experience had created a new timbre.
Heartbreak.
Of course, Crowley didn’t understand what Aziraphale was heartbroken over. He thought he knew him inside out, and that there was nothing new to be learned. Clearly, he was wrong.
Everything hurt. His chest ached, his eyes stung, and his lips overcame with a tingling feeling. Somewhere in his mind, he felt like Aziraphale wasn’t heartbroken over him. He was heartbroken over who Crowley used to be.
“Just like old times.”
He remembered that beautiful day, clear as ever. His nebula. His creation. He loved it more than anything. He wanted to watch the stars form and the colors change, colors bleeding and changing like a watercolor painting. It was perfect. But alas, it was all due for destruction. He didn’t understand why wanting to keep the cosmos around was such a crime. It changed the course of his life, forever.
Aziraphale didn’t understand that.
“He’s lucky,” Crowley thinks. Aziraphale is an angel with a tender heart. He knows not of what would happen to him if he were to fall, which thank the Devil he didn’t. Unfortunately, that lack of experience seemed to be the gap between their beliefs.
To Aziraphale, heaven was everything.
To Crowley, heaven was nothing.
That nothing had stolen his everything.
Crowley slapped the palm of his hand against the steering wheel of the Bentley, gritting his teeth. The car retaliated, the radio ticking on to play the gentle beginning of A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square, despite how he had pointedly turned it off upon entering the vehicle.
“That’s the point. No nightingales.”
He pulled over, parking the Bentley—in an area he probably couldn’t park—before turning the key so the engine came to a complete stop. A small whip of his hand tinted the windows, making it practically impossible to see in. He took a deep breath and leaned forward until his head was against the top of the wheel.
“We could have been us.”
Silently, through blurry vision, he thought over how he had acted. Of course Aziraphale would be displeased, he thought.
“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”
It had been his last attempt. His final try at getting Aziraphale to stay, and communication had gotten them nowhere. He had for once in his life been completely open and honest. Look at where that had gotten him.
In retrospect, the kiss had been an unintentional parting gift. He had hoped that maybe seeing physical proof of his love would be enough to convince Aziraphale.
“I forgive you.”
“Fuck!” Crowley pulled off his glasses, throwing them haphazardly into the passenger floorboard before bringing his hands to cover his eyes. He could sit in his car and cry about it. He could have a good cry, one that left him numb and empty afterwards.
Unfortunately, Crowley had things to do.
He grabbed a spare pair of glasses from his glovebox, pressing them onto his face before fixing the windows of the Bentley. The car was back in drive, and making its way—at a much more regular pace—back to the bookshop.
He couldn’t just leave Muriel there. They had no idea how the bookshop should be run. Then again, Aziraphale preferred to maintain the bookshop rather than run it. Crowley couldn’t remember if a single book had actually ever been sold. He didn’t want to remember anyways.
Once he was parked at his usual spot, next to Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, he stalked over to the large building where he had spent so much time over the last two-hundred years. Silently, he appreciated his shades. One deep breath and he headed in.
Finding Muriel was incredibly easy, since they were sitting down in a chair adjacent to the entrance.
“Oh! ‘ello ‘ello ‘ello, Mr. Demon!” They smiled, standing up. “You’d left in quite a hurry. I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.” Truly, after seeing part of the argument from the window they hadn’t expected him at all.
“Yeah, well, I, er..” He furrowed his eyebrows at his difficulty forming an actual sentence. His eyes focused on Muriel, and not the space where he had just risked everything and gotten an ‘I forgive you’ in response. “Ngk. Thought you might need some direction.”
“Direction?” Muriel seemed confused. “Oh, no. I’m not going anywhere. I was left in charge of the bookshop.”
“No, not-“ He sighed. “Direction on how to run the bookshop. I assume you’re not sure on how to do it.”
They perked up at this. “You’re right. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do to keep this place in order for Mr. Fell.”
“I’m sure the new Supreme Archangel and Chief of all of Heaven’s Forces will be extremely concerned about his books.” Crowley couldn’t help the mocking tone of voice he used for the title. Despite that, he knew that Aziraphale would care about his books even while in heaven. If he ever came back he wouldn’t want to see it in a horrid state.
He ran them through the basics that he knew. Don’t sell any books unless you absolutely have no other choice, make sure to clean up after yourself, and keep flames of every type out of the shop. Crowley’s explanation for the last one was explained rather vaguely, as he didn’t want to spend time thinking about painful details. There were other important aspects, but it all muddled together after a while.
Once all was said and done, Muriel turned to Crowley with a bright smile. “I’ll make sure to do that. Thank you for your help, Mr. Demon!”
“Don’t call it that, and don’t thank me,” Crowley spoke quickly. “This isn’t help. It’s just a little- y’know, some- it isn’t help. And ‘Crowley’ is just fine. If you’re trying to pretend to be human you can’t go around saying ‘demon’ so casually.” He didn’t need another reminder of what Aziraphale clearly didn’t like about him.
“You’re the bad guys.”
“Right. Thank you for your ‘not-help’, Mr. Crowley.” Muriel seemed proud of themselves, so he refrained from correcting them again.
He stammered for a moment to come up with a proper response, eventually scrunching his face tight for just a moment. “If you ever need anything else—not help, mind you—my number is written next to the phone over there. Old thing, the rotary. Spin the wheel for the number.” He gestured half-heartedly over to Aziraphale’s desk. “But only if it’s serious. Any regular stuff can go to Nina or Maggie.”
Muriel looked over at the phone, nodding their head throughout his talking. “Spin the wheel. Got it.”
“Good.”
“Oh, um, just one question though, Mr. Crowley.”
“What?”
They looked a bit sheepish, so he toned it down a little. “What’s your question?”
They seemed to relax at his change of voice, so they continued. “Where can I find Maggie and Nina?”
“Oh. Right. Well, er… Nina runs that coffee shop with the long name. And Maggie is right next door. Runs the record shop. Big circle that plays music.” He wasn’t entirely sure if they knew what a record was, so the explanation couldn’t hurt. “Anything else? ‘fraid I’m in a bit of a rush.”
Muriel shook their head, still smiling. “Nothing at all! If I have any urgent things to ask, I'll give you a ring.” They held up their hand to their ear, thumb and pinkie extended to mimic a phone. “Have a nice day!”
“Hnng,” he responds, swiftly turning on his heel to leave the bookshop. He makes his way back over to the Bentley, ignoring the way an irritated driver honks at him for walking in the road without looking both ways. He ignores the way Nina tries to flag him down, shutting the door the moment he sat down to get the point across.
Crowley starts the engine and heads off. He plans on saying away this time. He’d done his good deed of the day, but he refused to acknowledge it as such. The speed at which the car was hurtling towards his flat gave him time to sit in silence, nothing to focus on but the blur of passing buildings and people. He removed his hands from the steering wheel, letting the Bentley drive itself for the time being.
Aziraphale would change his mind. He would come right back around, and he’d do his stupid little apology dance to give Crowley a good laugh. He had to come back, right?
He had to.
***
The first week of Aziraphale’s absence was probably the worst, at least when it came to Crowley’s physical condition. The moment he stepped back into his flat he was forced to be alone with himself, which, in his eyes, was definitely a curse.
A snap of his fingers brought a bottle of something strong to his desk. He slumped in the chair, not even bothering to use a glass as he pressed the glass top to his lips and drank. He made sure to keep the supply up, even as his body slipped into a state that would probably be considered alcohol poisoning.
He felt sick, his head was aching, and everything blurred together. His body shook with heavy sobs as it all crashed into him.
Aziraphale didn’t feel the same.
Aziraphale wanted to make him pure.
Aziraphale didn’t love him.
Aziraphale was gone.
He remembered drinking himself silly when he thought the angel had died. It had helped numb the feeling slightly. This was a thousand times worse. At least before Aziraphale hadn’t left on his own accord, but not this time. This time Aziraphale looked him in the eyes from across the street and got into the elevator.
Crowley couldn’t compare to heaven. He couldn’t compare to the people Aziraphale had looked up to his whole existence. Crowley was a perfect example of what heaven didn’t want in their ranks. He had questions. He had morality. He was imperfect.
“Oh, and Aziraphale was perfectly perfect!” He sneered at that thought.
He was beautiful and caring, something that stood out amongst the majority of angels.
The only issue, in Crowley’s eyes, was that he wasn’t worth Aziraphale’s care.
He found himself on the concrete floor, looking at the ceiling. His shades were lopsided, lying on his forehead. His vision was impossibly blurry from an endless stream of salty tears.
He touched his fingers to his lips, closing his eyes.
Perhaps the kiss had been a stupid idea. He had been so overwhelmed in the moment by thoughts. There were bits that stuck out, and he wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. Faintly, he could recall Aziraphale’s initial shock. The very slight push against Crowley’s frame from the angel faded off into a touch on his back. He could tell Aziraphale had been struggling with whether or not he should return the affection.
Crowley wishes he did.
It isn’t uncommon for Crowley to sleep. He spent a good amount of the 14th century sleeping. It was such a depressing period—famines, plagues, etc—that he simply didn’t enjoy being active in. In his eyes he didn’t use sleep as a way to escape real life, but that was absolutely how he used the experience.
He doesn’t make it to his bed, of course. After that bottle of something strong he felt like moving was too much effort. The floor was fine enough, and that was where he stayed for the next eighteen hours or so.
To his distaste, he was woken by the sound of the phone on his desk ringing. Crowley groaned, shaking his head from side to side. His sunglasses clinked against the floor at the movement, which he ignored as he sat up and rubbed his face. He had such a horrible headache, which he simply didn’t have the energy to deal with just yet.
The ringing pierced the air as the caller seemed to not give up. “Mngh,” he grunts, getting up and stumbling halfway into his seat and halfway against the desk. He picked up the phone with some misdirected aggression.
“Now is not a good time.” Some part of him hoped that Aziraphale was on the line. It was unrealistic. He knew it wasn’t possible. He didn’t have the patience for anyone.
“It’s not? I can call you back later, I think.”
Okay, so maybe Crowley did have the patience for someone. He plopped himself back in his too-tall chair, more-so leaning in it than actually sitting in it. “Inspector Constable. Didn’t think you’d call so fast. Somethin’ the matter?”
He reached a hand up to grab his glasses from his head, furrowing his eyebrows when he realized they weren’t there. He patted around his pockets before looking back to where he had been lying. A silent breath left him as a sort of groan when he saw them on the floor.
“I don’t think something being the matter is the right phrase. I’m just having a hard time with the books.”
“Eh- wh- the books? Er, what about ‘em?”
“They’re sorted in a funny way, I think.” They looked at their pile of books. “They aren't sorted by genre, or, what’s it called… oh, author! It’s confusing.”
“Are you trying to ask if I’ll help you sort the books?” He leaned his head against the back of his seat.
Muriel smiled so widely it was basically heard in their tone. “Yes! If it’s not a bother, I mean. It’s a big bookshop.”
Crowley paused, taking a deep breath. He didn’t want to be in that bookshop. He didn’t want to see Nina or Maggie. They’d ask questions and try to figure out what went down between him and Aziraphale. He wanted to stay in his flat, where the angel had never stepped foot. It was safe.
Even so, he knew Muriel had no idea what they were doing.
He grit his teeth and let out a slow breath. “I’ll be over in ten minutes. Leave the front door unlocked.”
“You mean it? Great!”
“Yeah. Be over soon. Buh-bye.”
He hung up the phone, closing his eyes before taking deep breaths.
One, two, three, four…
He counted in his head, as humans do, to make sure he didn’t strike yet another building with lightning. Once he felt a little better, he got up with a kick of his feet and snatched his shades up from the floor.