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Crowley had been driving in circles for hours now. He could barely see, his glasses were steamed up and eyes moist with tears but it was a familiar route, driving round and round in circles around the small Soho street where a bookshop stands as it always had but with a significant change only a few really knew and even less cared about.
The owner of the bookshop had changed.
Aziraphale chose fucking heaven over Earth, the bookshop, Crowley. He chose a promotion over the life he’d built- no they’d built together.
Crowley didn’t understand it, hence why he was silently driving as tears flowed down his face. The Bently, understanding the situation, didn’t dare to play a song since its dad had turned off “A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square”
After around an hour of circling the same street, The Bently got bored, which mixed with its grief of losing its other dad caused it to become annoying, similar to a moody teenager (if a teenager was a 90-year-old Bently). This caused the first few notes of a Queen song to start playing.
Love of my life you’ve hurt me-
Crowley shut it off immediately. He didn’t need Freddy Mercury narrating his current thoughts.
“You are my car and you will do as you’re told, got it?”
Crowley sighed his voice didn’t have its usual bite to it. Instead, it was weak, faltering, lacking its normal harshness. He took a turn, he doesn’t know why, a force of habit? Maybe. He needed to look at the bookshop? Again, maybe.
Whatever the reason, Crowley turned and was now parked in front of “Give me coffee or give me death” but his head slowly swung left as he looked at the bookshop.
His mind raced, he felt over two hundred years’ worth of memories wash over him. He remembered everything from initially being welcomed into the shop a few hours before it officially opened to walking out just an hour before.
It all hit him like a ten-tonne truck.
He remembered countless evenings spent lounging around drinking, many days lazing around watching Aziraphale shoo customers away, thousands of hours worth of listening to Aziraphale ramble about anything and everything, enjoying the wide smile that crossed his features, the six thousand years of longing that came out in a twelve second gesture right there in that book shop.
He was trying to push that thought out his mind when he spotted a tall man with a bowler hat and grey trench-coat walk into the shop and Crowley flung his door open and walked out, slamming the door shut and with a click his fingers to lock it as he raced across the street and over to the bookshop.
He walked right in.
“Oh yes sir! Please take any-“
“The books aren’t for sale today piss off.”
“Excuse me sir, but who are you?”
“I’ll be your worst nightmare in a minute if you don’t leave right now-“
The man huffed and stormed past Crowley, and if him tripping on the steps was Crowley’s fault well, nobody would know.
“Mr Crowley-“ The angel, while still dressed in their police constable uniform, looked at Crowley with the same panic as they did when they took him to heaven.
“Rule one of running the bookshop, don’t sell any books.”
“Right, of course, yes, no selling books… What about giving them away like you did? With this book to me!” They held up the book Crowley had offhandedly thrown them.
“Not okay either, don’t give or sell any books, to anyone, got it?”
“Right, yes, okay… but why do people ask for them then?”
Crowley stared at Muriel, the admiration in his eyes hidden behind his dark shades. They reminded him so much of himself as an angel, curious about everything, asking every single question that came to their mind.
Not even him, a heartbroken completely evil demon would dare break their spirit, especially considering how lonely they told him they were, even if they only implied it.
Crowley sighs, his eyes still moist and his glasses cloudy which only added to his inability to see properly but even he could make out the hopeful, curious look upon their face.
“Mr Crowley?”
Crowley realised he had been staring at them without answering for a while. “They ask because most bookshops sell books, but not this one, Ang- Aziraphale has been collecting and organising for almost his whole time on Earth and you will not ruin it understood?” He tried to sound harsh as the last bit- he did have a reputation to uphold.
Muriel nodded enthusiastically. “My orders are to run the bookshop except… How do you run a bookshop without giving books away?” They thought for a minute, “If you don’t mind my asking-“
“Rule two, You will open at random hours, and tell people these exact words when they come in, you ready?” They nod at him, “Piss off not for sale.”
“Piss off, not for sale?” They repeated back to him with confidence that wavered into questioning.
“Exactly. Rule three, organise the bookshop. Alphabetical by author's surname.”
They smiled happily back at him, “Of course! That’s easy! Just- what’s an author and what’s a surname?”
Again Crowley sighs and takes the book Muriel is holding out their hand, he points to the author's name, “author” he points to the surname, “Surname, it’s always the second name.”
Crowley then looked around and pointed at a bookshelf, “rule four, that’s where A goes,” he continued and when he realised Muriel was getting confused, he went over to the desk and pulled out some sticky notes, writing each letter on them before sticking them to the correct bookshelf.
“Thank you, Mr Crowley-“
“Drop the Mr will you- and don’t thank me.” He glared through his glasses at them.
“Right, yes of course, sorry.”
Crowley licked his lips slightly bringing in the bottom to bite it out of stress. He should hate this angel, he told himself to hate them. However, he found himself only feeling sorry for Muriel and wanting to help them but he could feel himself begin to break down, it pained him physically and mentally to be so close to where It happened.
He had already refused to look there for the entire time he’s been in the shop.
The silence drew on becoming awkward till Crowley cleared his throat. “I’ll be back in a week. If you need me to call me but that’s for emergencies only ask Maggie or Nina if you need help, go to Maggie in the record shop first.”
“Mr Cr- I mean Crowley I don’t have your number-“
“Notebook next to the phone.” And with that he turned around and quickly walked out the shop across the road and into his car.
He collapsed in the driver's seat and pushed his sunglasses up his head so he could wipe his eyes. Resting his elbows on the steering wheel keeping his palms in his eyes, beginning to see stars however he only pushed them in further.
He needed the physical pain to slightly balance out the mental.
He wants Aziraphale. He still doesn’t understand how he could willingly pick heaven over the life the two of them had built? Had the centuries of building trust, friendship, loyalty and love meant nothing?
Was Crowley really just not worthy of love?
He mumbles quietly to himself, “He couldn’t even love me as this.”
Maybe God was right, maybe Crowley wasn’t deserving of her eternal love nor anyone else’s. Maybe Crowley was just that fucking useless.
Crowley could feel the anger, sadness and heartbreak build up inside of him, he felt the overwhelming feeling of emotions build up against every part of his body.
He tried to do the human thing and breathe, he focused on his breathing but as he focused on slowing his breathing down it grew faster and faster till he could feel his heartbeat in his throat.
Why did it feel this bad?
Why would Crowley only be good enough if he was changed to fit back into the place that abandoned him?
Crowley expected to be burnt into lightning again for the second time this week, only this time it would ruin his car, but instead a strangled sob left his throat.
He removed his hands from his eyes, to instead put his glasses back on his face and start to drive, quickly, breaking the speedometer as he drove out of the busy streets to an abandoned street where he could hope nobody would find him.
No one can see him like he currently is, absolutely sobbing into his hands as his mind pictures Aziraphale every time he closes his eyes.
Everything came in flashes, a blurry picture of him introducing himself as Crowley created a nebula
A shared smile and laugh and a wing over the head in Eden.
A surprise meeting in Mesopotamia that included a small look of relief at the sight of Crowley.
The first full look of trust Aziraphale sent Crowley, the sight of him enjoying an ox rib, the look on his face when he lied to heaven, the look he had when they both stared out on their bench.
The look of disgust on his face as they watched Jesus die, the willingness to call him a different name.
The smile on his face in the Roman bar, the laugh over saying “tempt”, the joy on his face as he ate oysters.
The happiness that radiated off of him when he realised he was talking to Crowley in the kingdom of Wessex.
The smile, the joy, the happiness and pure excitement on his face at seeing Hamlet, if Crowley made Hamlet the most successful play just because Aziraphale liked it that’s for him to know but he would never forget the joy that radiated from him in the Globe.
The joy in his voice when he realised Crowley was in the French cell, his ridiculous outfit he had no right looking so perfect in, the stupid excuse of too many miracles and a smile on his face as he ate the crêpes he had almost literally died for.
The secret snicker at seeing and making fun of Gabriel’s statue, the way his ideas and face changed as he discovered how morals may not be so black and white, the hand around his waist as he guided Crowley while he was high off poison, the reassurance he was there with Crowley.
The look of contempt on his face as he spoke about pears, the worry on his face as Crowley asked for Holy water in St James Park.
The relief on his face in the church, the utter happiness on his face when Crowley handed him the books, the smile in the car, the waving of the handkerchief when he saved Crowley’s back, the smile in the bookshop, the sway as he sang to himself, the utterly adorable magic trick, the cute embarrassment on his face as he messed up the display with the rings, the awe on his face as he picked out the bullet catch, the enthusiasm as he shook Crowley’s hand, the confidence as he started his magic tricks and got booed, the bravery as he waited to be shot, the sheer joy back in the dressing room, the way his voice deepened as he corrected Furfur, the look on his face when he showed Crowley the swapped photo, the- dare he say it- love on his face when they drank together on their mini date.
Thé trust in his eyes as he handed over the flask in 1963, the slight smile as he suggested a picnic.
The talk of Armageddon, the look on his face as they talked about the sound of music, the blush when he blew up the parking attendants ticket book, the fun they had while drunk, the nonsense he spoke, the smile on his face when they decided to be godfathers, the care and love he put into the plants he garnered and Warlock as he looked after him.
Every single moment of the week leading up to Armageddon, including the day itself as they both fought against heaven and hell with the help of an eleven year old boy and the body swap afterwards, the laugh as he recounted the tale of the trial.
And every moment with Jim, the coffee shop, the pub, asking for the car, being with Muriel, his inspector outfit, the changing of the car, the determination as he brought every shopkeeper on the street to that stupid ball, the stupid ball itself where they both danced, even if it was overshadowed by the impending war outside the door, the embarrassment as he admitted to blowing up his halo, the way he took charge over everyone, the small looks he sent Crowley’s way.
The way he explained what the Metatron had told him, the confusion as Crowley argued, the panic as Crowley told him how he felt, the resulting fight back, the rejection, the kiss, the way his hands held on to him during the kiss, the way he pushed away from the kiss, the look he gave Crowley, the forgiveness, the way he walked away and into the lift.
Crowley opened his eyes normally not needing to breathe however panic overtook him however the rush for air overcame that fact. He felt like he needed air in his lungs like he needed Aziraphale by his side.
He got neither.
~~
In the week he gave himself, Crowley refused to sleep, he sat in his flat he recently got back and sat and drank.
And drank.
And drank.
And drank.
His plants all died. He screamed at them when he realised, but it was half-hearted. He didn’t care enough, all he could think about was the angel with the curly white hair, out-dated bow ties and most perfect smile.
He was a fucking wreck, he would be for years but he also knew Muriel needed help adjusting to the bookshop, even the world, and Crowley as the only other non-earthly being took it upon himself to show them all the things they need.
~~
So here are Anthony J. Crowley’s rules to getting over a 6000 year long crush who just rejected you.
Rule one: you cry
Rule two: you drink
Rule three: you hide your feelings refusing to show your true self to anyone because you’ve lost all the trust you ever had.
Rule four: practically adopt a child who’s also an angel created at a similar time to you but at just a much lower rank
Rule five: Pretend you don’t love Aziraphale the crush