Chapter Text
Crowley hadn’t spared any single thought to what would happen if he ever saw Aziraphale again, because he had been certain that he wouldn’t. He’d said everything he had to say (done more than that, even) and Aziraphale hadn’t been interested. So it was over between them, and it was no use to keep dwelling on it.
So coming back to the bookshop, that was for Muriel. It was their first assignment on Earth, they would be overwhelmed for sure. And Aziraphale had a specific way of organising his books, there was no way they would be able to understand it.
So, a few weeks after that disastrous night - long enough for Crowley to start licking his wounds, but not long enough that there was profound worry Muriel could have already caused any major disasters - Crowley gathered his resolve and went back to Soho.
After he’d gotten the most important things out of the way (don’t sell any of the books, I mean it, if a human comes in just tell them to fuck off) he started to show Muriel around the shelves, taught them where to find romance novels and historical works, and how to take care of the oldest books in the shop so they wouldn’t fall apart. Muriel scurried after him with a little notepad in their hand, nodding along nervously and writing down every single word.
"I’m not about to give you an exam," he finally told them irritably. "You can stop transcribing this."
Muriel dutifully wrote that down as well and then gave him a blinding smile. "I’m learning so much from you, you should come around more often!"
Crowley should’ve said no. Should’ve told them it wasn’t that hard to keep the bookshop intact and that Aziraphale would have to come down and teach them himself if he even still cared.
But he didn’t say no. And what was worse, he couldn’t even tell himself that it was about Muriel because the ache that had been steadily pressing down on his chest since Aziraphale left was finally being soothed, right there in the bookshop.
(The was the very real worry that this was a type of relief only unhealthy cures could bring - but Crowley had never been good at resisting temptation.)
So he agreed, and it became a standing appointment between them. And it was too easy, was the problem - the Bentley found its way to the front of the bookshop basically on its own. Once, it even produced a bowl of travel sweets as they parked. That day, Crowley made himself very clear when he said that such behaviour was unacceptable, and he felt the car’s sour mood follow him into the bookshop.
"Crowley!" Muriel greeted him, delighted as always. "So lovely that you’re here. I’ve actually written down some questions about how to come about new books."
"For… Hell’s sake, I’m not a bookseller," Crowley snapped, still irritated by his car’s behaviour. "You’d have to ask him about that, and he’s not here."
It was impressive really, the way Muriel’s smile only wavered a little at his outburst. "Oh, well I guess you’re right, Aziraphale would know better. Is it okay if I leave the bookshop for a bit to go Upstairs?"
They frowned.
"I mean, that’s if he even wants to see me … He’s quite important now, so."
Crowley just barely managed to not start smoking in the middle of the bookshop and start another fire.
"Uhm, are you okay? You look a little…"
"Fine," Crowley said and pushed past them, firstly to not have to look at their concerned face, and secondly because he knew that Az- that there were always spare bottles of wine stacked somewhere in the bookshop. With the Bentley acting out of line and Muriel putting that image of Upstairs’ new management in his head, there was no way he was going to do this visit sober.
At least he wouldn’t have to drink alone. He pulled a relatively old-looking bottle out of a cupboard and turned around, staring straight Muriel. "Have you ever had alcohol?"
Muriel shook their head, visibly unsure. "Uh, no. I’m not sure I’m supposed to…"
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Long as he’s up there it doesn’t matter, trust me. And this is some of the finest stuff humanity has ever created."
Muriel still looked hesitant. But after the past six millennia, Crowley had enough experience with angels trying to evade earthly pleasures.
"Aren’t you supposed to understand the humans so you can keep them on Heaven’s side?" Crowley wasn’t sure at all that that was Heaven’s actual intention, but it seemed to work.
Slowly, Muriel inched towards the table where Crowley was preparing two glasses of the 1947 Bordeaux him and Aziraphale had acquired some time after the second World War. Neither of them had even tried it yet; they’d been saving it for a special occasion.
And, Crowley thought, an angel’s first drink was a special occasion. Aziraphale had left, it was entirely his own doing that he would not be here for the first tasting of this bottle.
Crowley tried to convince himself that it felt good, like vindication, to be drinking this bottle with a different angel, but the wine doesn’t taste as good as it should. And as the alcohol began to cloud his peripheral vision, it also dragged out the hurt he’d had to shove into a tiny alcove in his chest, somewhere beneath where humans have their ribs.
"Whoa, this is…" Muriel said eventually, and it took them so long to drag out the words Crowley barely managed to follow what they were saying. "So weird."
A heavy sigh found its way out of Crowley’s chest. "Yeah, that’s… took him a few tries to get used to it, too."
"Humans really drink this?"
Crowley shrugged. "Some do."
Muriel peered into their glass with wonder, as if it held all secrets humanity had to offer. "They never told us about this. I didn’t know anything about humans until I came here." They giggled.
"You’ll get the hang of it," Crowley mumbled, staring at a smudge in the carpet. Had that always been there, or did that happen when Shax’s army had breached the bookshop? "He did too, after a while."
Muriel sighed, and it was a bit too dreamy for Crowley’s liking. "I always thought he was so brave, being the Heavenly consort here. It’s so overwhelming!"
"Well," - Crowley couldn’t help it - "He didn’t have to figure it out by himself."
But Muriel just barrelled on, paying the moping demon no mind. "I didn’t even know about coffee until the Metatron stopped by! There are so many different flavour combinations, did you know that?"
Crowley grabbed the wine bottle and filled up his glass to the brim. "Want some more?"
As Muriel eagerly handed him their glass, Crowley idly wondered if he should be restricting the amount of wine they were drinking. He then chose to dismiss that thought because really, he was not going to become the designated babysitter for naive, kindhearted angels that had clearly not been prepared for their job.
And there was always the option of sobering up instantly, so there.
"Have you ever read a book?" Muriel suddenly asked apropos of nothing.
Crowley shrugged, choosing not to question their train of thought. "Sure have."
"There’s so many stories in them! And each one has different content, can you believe that?"
"Mmmh."
At once, Muriel’s eyes lit up. "Oh, you should keep coming here! We could read together."
Crowley wondered who in the Upstairs angelic resources department was in charge of selecting the London associates, given that they seemed to have a tendency to invite a demon into their embassy. Repeatedly. "Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. The bookshop was his thing, not mine."
Muriel frowned. "But I just thought, since he left -"
Crowley leaned forward so abruptly Muriel visibly flinched. "Not. Another. Word. Okay?"
The poor angel looked appropriately terrified. It almost made Crowley feel bad about his outburst, especially when, instead of snapping back at him, they just settled back into their seat, avoiding his eyes. That, combined with the reminder of the last time he’d seen Azriaphale made him feel as though he was rotting from the inside.
Rotten enough for him to say: "What is it that you’ve been reading, then?"
Muriel stared at him.
Uncomfortable with the attention and the process of doing something that one might consider "good", Crowley avoided looking at their face, instead choosing to stare at that damn spot on the carpet.
"Well," Muriel finally said, halting but still unable to hide their excitement. "There’s a lot but I recently found out that humans have this thing called a "play", which is like a book but it has mostly dialogue…"
Really, it was no wonder that Muriel had discovered the section dedicated to plays, as it was the biggest one in the bookshop. Crowley had never really understood Aziraphale’s obsession with them, and his only memories of theatre were Aziraphale’s retellings - save for some of William Shakespeare he’d reluctantly let himself be dragged along to. He’d hoped, for a brief moment, that once they had managed to evade both Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale would take him to the theatre some time. Aziraphale would know who the William Shakespeares of modern times were, and no matter which play he picked, Crowley would have complained through the entire show. It would have been a perfect evening.
Not that there was any chance of that happening now. Crowley wondered whether becoming the supreme archangel had changed Aziraphale; if he even still cared about his extensive collection of first edition plays dating back to King James VI’s times.
Crowley tried to drown out Muriel’s ramblings as much as he could and tried not to think about Aziraphale, and the decision he had made. He tried not to wonder whether Aziraphale was happy Up There, but ended up worrying that they still were not treating him right.
He probably should have been making more of an effort to join the conversation (which, by the end of it, had turned into an increasingly incoherent monologue), but every time he happened to zone in just a little bit, it felt as though he was sitting in the bookshop of a year ago, listening to a different angel ramble about a new play he had discovered.
As it was, he made affirming noises where he guessed it was appropriate and kept both of their glasses topped up.
When the second bottle of wine began to dwindle, he noticed that Muriel’s eyes had gradually begun to close.
"Mmmmno," Crowley mumbled insistently. "Don’ sleep, y’should sober up."
Muriel blinked at him, clearly confused. Crowley tried to move his sluggish mind to explain what sobering up was and how to do it, but it proved to be quite a complicated concept to wrap his own head around, never mind someone else’s.
By the time he had managed to phrase the instructions in his head, Muriel was already sound asleep. Briefly, Crowley considered making the effort to get his share of the wine out of his system and concluded that it wasn’t worth it.
***
Crowley’s burning desire to never, ever return to the bookshop was stronger than ever, but out of what was certainly not the goodness of his heart, he decided that he ought to at least check on Muriel after their last encounter had led to a severe hangover.
(His alcohol-fuelled reasoning of letting the wine take its course through his body had not led to pleasant outcomes for himself either.)
He parked the Bentley several blocks away to prevent further mishaps and, as he walked to the bookshop, tried not to think about how many times he and Aziraphale had been to that pub, this shop, the theatre down the street, which proved to be quite difficult. He also tried not to think about how they would never do any of these things again because Aziraphale had chosen Heaven over 6000 years of such memories. That proved to be flat-out impossible.
All of those unpleasant emotions however did not compare to opening the door of the bookshop and seeing Muriel and Aziraphale hovering over a pot of tea.
Crowley had always thought himself above experiencing a fight-or-flight response - that was for humans and guinea pigs, certainly not for demons. However, in that moment, he had the overwhelming urge to turn around and leave the bookshop as quickly as possible while also wanting nothing more than to step closer to Aziraphale.
He didn’t know what to do with either of these emotions, and so he focused his attention on Muriel.
"What is he doing here?"
"Oh, I went Upstairs to ask him about bookselling like you said. And then he mentioned that he’s been missing the bookshop so I asked him if he wanted to join us!"
They were obviously delighted at having the both of them as guests, and he both didn’t want to disappoint them or walk out on Aziraphale, and so he stayed rooted to his spot in the door, smoking only slightly.
"Would you like some tea?" Aziraphale asked gently. "I’ve been teaching Muriel how to make it."
"Save it," Crowley snapped without looking at him. He finally managed to dislodge himself from the doorframe and, still not looking at him, pushed past Aziraphale and reclaimed the armchair he’d gotten drunk in only days before.
"Why are you even here?" Crowley asked in Muriel’s direction. "Don’t you have more important things to do up there?"
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, clearly hurt. "I can decide how I organise myself now. I came back as soon as I was able to."
Crowley couldn’t help himself, he snorted. "Yeah right."
More like, he came back once Muriel had reminded him that this bookshop still existed. But Crowley couldn’t bring himself to say that, even though the thought presented itself as an unquestionable truth in his head.
"Crowley please," Aziraphale had moved closer to him, he could feel it. He kept his eyes resolutely fixed on Muriel, who was nervously pouring a cup of tea. "Can’t we at least be civil with each other?"
Now that was rich, and enough for Crowley to finally turn his head in Aziraphale’s direction. "Are you seriously going to tell me to be civil with you, after you told me, after six thousand years of you and me helping each other, that you cannot be seen fraternising?"
Aziraphale opened his mouth and closed it again. Now it was him who was turning away.
But Crowley wasn’t done yet. "As a matter of fact, are you really telling me to be civil after choosing Heaven over us?"
That blow clearly struck where it was supposed to. Aziraphale’s whole body tensed. And maybe he should’ve left well enough alone, but the hurts he’d been carrying with him for the past weeks pushed themselves out of his mouth anyways.
"There’s nothing more to be said, weren’t those your words?"
Aziraphale’s gaze was on him so quickly Crowley didn’t even have a chance to avoid eye contact. All of a sudden, he wasn’t sitting opposite an angel that was nervous and slightly apologetic, but one that was flat-out furious.
"Yes, and then you -" Aziraphale stopped abruptly, glancing over at Muriel, who was staring at them with what could only be described as one step below fear in their eyes.
"Well," Aziraphale said, forcibly casual. "It hardly matters now."
Crowley had half a mind to tell him off for that - really, who was Aziraphale kidding, of course it mattered, Crowley had seen it in his eyes right before Aziraphale had had the gall to forgive him (and, to make matters worse, he was still putting on a face around Crowley, after 6000 years).
But Muriel looked close to tears, and their meetings were the only reason Crowley had anything to look forward to these days, so he resolutely kept his mouth shut (Aziraphale’s statement at least deserved to go unaddressed).
"So," Aziraphale said after a few agonising moments of silence, "How have you been finding the bookshop, Muriel?"
Thankfully, Muriel was easily distracted; their face lit up and gone were the traces of uncertainty and confusion. "Oh, it’s been so amazing! I was a bit overwhelmed at first but Crowley helped me."
"Ah," Aziraphale said with that pointed tone of his he always used whenever Crowley did something Aziraphale was pleased with. Crowley hated it even more now. "Did he now?"
Crowley went back to turning his whole body away from Aziraphale and kept it that way for remainder of their get-together. If Muriel noticed the continuing tension between them, they did a miraculous job at pretending they didn’t.
In that moment, Crowley realised that he really had no idea how to talk to Aziraphale anymore; looking at him was a reminder of what they had lost, the last time they had been in this bookshop together, and that hurt made itself known whether he permitted it to or not. Having Muriel there made it easier to bear, which in itself was like looking at a nebula turned on its axis; him and Aziraphale had only ever been comfortable around each other when neither Heaven nor Hell was around. Where time used to fly by so smoothly Crowley would have barely noticed it, it was viscous now; dragging on bit by tiny bit until the tea was empty and Crowley felt it was both reasonable and absolutely necessary to end this before he did something stupid like ask Aziraphale why, after 6000 years, Crowley hadn’t been enough for him.
"Well," Aziraphale said with a tight smile, when Crowley made a move to leave. "Perhaps we could do this again?"
"Absolutely not," Crowley said immediately and pushed past Aziraphale out of the bookshop before he had a chance to point out what both of them were thinking - that there had never, nor would there probably ever be, an occasion in which he meant those words.
***
The bookshop now felt less like a refuge and more like a minefield that Crowley wasn’t prepared to step into. He really ought to teach Muriel how to use Aziraphale’s phone, because when he tried to call them, they never picked up. That forced Crowley to go back to the bookshop in person in order to ask Muriel to firstly never invite Aziraphale again without warning him, and secondly to move their meetings out of the bookshop and to more neutral ground. At least, that was the plan. But the memory of their last encounter was still a rather fresh wound, so when he got to Soho the next time, he made a last-minute detour and walked into Nina’s coffee shop.
She hadn’t been expecting him, that much was clear right away. Crowley miracled himself a free table in the corner of the bookshop, and it was only a few moments after he’d sat down that she appeared next to him.
"Haven’t seen you in a while." She eyed him in that searching way of hers, clearly reading more in Crowley’s expression than he was comfortable with.
"Yeah well," he said, as aloof as he was able to, which was not very. "Didn’t really have a reason to come back."
Nina immediately frowned at him. "How did your talk go?"
Crowley avoided her eyes and let the silence stretch.
"You did talk to him, right?"
"Yeah, I did but…" Crowley tried to find words for what had happened, but found that he couldn’t, and so he just shook his head.
Nina’s expression creased. "I’m sorry to hear that, I really thought -"
"Yeah," Crowley said tightly, cutting her off in order to avoid having to hear more of that sentence. "So did I."
She nodded and Crowley wanted nothing less than to get pity from her, and so he was grateful when she settled for a quick squeeze of his shoulder and walked away.
It was only when she returned with a plate and a big cup that he realised he never even told her his order.
His chest did an uncomfortable squeeze when he saw that she’d brought him plate of eccles cakes and a black coffee.
Nina pulled out the other chair and sat down across from him. "Thought espresso might not be the best for this conversation."
"Yeah, thanks," Crowley said instead of insisting that they did not have to have this conversation at all, thank you very much.
"What happened?"
Crowley appreciated her bluntness; but it also put a vice around his throat. Speaking seemed like pushing words out of a physically obstructed throat.
"He didn’t, uh…" Damn him, this was hard. "He didn’t want the same thing I did, so."
Nina seemed to wrangle with a fair bit of disbelief, which Crowley could not begrudge her for. "Are you… at least on good terms with him?"
Crowley just shook his head.
"Have you talked to him at all, since?"
Crowley wondered whether their brief meeting at the bookshop even counted as talking, and shrugged.
Nina sighed. "You should talk to him. Are you sure it wasn’t just a misunderstanding?"
That conversation had perhaps been the first day in their existence that Crowley had been fully honest with both Aziraphale and himself. And Aziraphale, in turn, had told him in no uncertain terms that he was more interested in what Heaven had to offer - even after all that they’d done to him, to them. All Crowley had asked was for Aziraphale to recognise that what they had built in the past 6000 years was special, and more important than what their old bosses wanted, but that had been thrown back in his face immediately. He’d shot his shot and lost, there was nothing else to it.
Explaining all of this to Nina would’ve taken at least a lesson on the actual history of the universe, and he was not inclined to relive any it of it, specifically the recent parts. It wouldn’t change anything anyways.
And that was not what he came into the shop for. "Can you do something for me?"
Nina eyed him suspiciously, which, all things considered, was fair. "What is it?"
"I need you to go into the bookshop. There’s another angel running it at the moment; tell them to meet me in here."
Nina’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "What, you can’t go and do that yourself?"
"I’m not going in there anymore," Crowley told the sugar dispenser on the table.
"Absolutely not," Nina said immediately.
Crowley shuddered. No one had spoken to him this way since Aziraphale had left.
"Okay, first of all: I’m not your mother," Nina said sharply, and before Crowley could tell her that he didn’t have a mother anyways, added: "And you need to get over yourself and talk to him."
Crowley bristled. "Well I can’t because he left me to go back to Heaven."
It was a good thing that the noise level of a coffee shop in the middle of central London was high enough to drown out Crowley’s snarling to the other customers.
Nina looked past him, out of the window and then raised an eyebrow. "Well it doesn’t look like he did."
It was like she had dumped a bucket of ice cold water over his head. As quick as demons were able to move (which was a good deal fast than humans) he turned around, and sure enough…
"Oh fuck me."
Nina chuckled. "Go talk to him. Also, don’t ever ask me to be your owl again, okay?"
Crowley didn’t even bother answering her; all of his attention had focused on Aziraphale at once and her stern words only registered somewhere on his periphery.
He hadn’t expected to see Aziraphale again at all, let alone so quickly, and his body moved on autopilot. It wasn’t until he was out the door and on the street that he realised he’d grabbed the plate of Eccles cakes in his panic.
"Crowley." Aziraphale’s face lit up - tentatively, sure, but it lit up all the same - and that intonation of his name was one he’d head a thousand times before "Fancy seeing you here."
Crowley came to an abrupt stop a few feet away from Aziraphale; just slightly too far to be considered reasonable for a polite conversation. He couldn’t do it, he realised in that very moment. With Muriel gone, he had no choice but to feel how much he was still hurting, and that threatened to overwrite his desire to have Aziraphale in his life in whatever capacity the angel would offer him.
"Why are you here?" Crowley demanded.
All of that light in Aziraphale’s expression was immediately extinguished at Crowley’s harsh tone. "Well I just wanted to see if we could, perhaps, keep in contact?"
Crowley stared at him. "You came down here to ask if you could talk to me?"
Aziraphale smiled tentatively. "Yes?"
Crowley had to take a deep breath, which was, biologically speaking, entirely unnecessary, but in that moment absolutely crucial. After the past months of aimlessly driving around in his car, feelings loneliness more keenly than he ever had in his existence, and having to accept the fact that Aziraphale had just not been as serious about them as Crowley had been, this offer felt like a slap to the face. He’d laid open all his cards back then, and Aziraphale had thrown the entire game onto the floor.
And now he was back here, as though they’d only had a minor altercation that had left them both feeling a bit miffed. Asking to be friends.
"I believe someone once said something to me about the dangers of fraternising." Crowley waited a few seconds, let that sink in because dammit, he’d had to live with that feeling too. "I don’t think your new subjects would be too pleased to see you down here with me."
He tried not to react to the tears gathering in Aziraphale’s eyes, or the way he obviously had to fight for his voice to remain stable. "But I’m in charge now, nothing can happen to us now."
"Yeah," Crowley said quietly. "You made sure of that."
"I was trying to do the right thing! Crowley, how could I have walked away knowing that I could’ve made things so much better?"
And that was the crux of the issue, wasn’t it - that Aziraphale’s faith still laid with Heaven, and with God, while Crowley had long ago placed his faith in them.
"And have you? Made things better?"
Have they let you probably was the more pressing question, but Crowley knew Aziraphale wasn’t ready to hear it.
Aziraphale sighed. "It’s… a work in progress. But I can change it, you have to believe me."
"I believe that you believe that."
Crowley saw the frustration in Aziraphale’s face as he said it and he knew that if he didn’t cut this conversation short, he would be hearing another round of the same arguments about Heaven that missed the point entirely.
"How can you not see that this is the problem? Six thousand years and it wasn’t enough for you to believe in us instead."
I wasn’t enough for you, is what Crowley didn’t say, but it must have read clear as day on his face because Aziraphale’s expression crumbled immediately.
Aziraphale moved forwards, almost helplessly, his entire body seemed to be reaching out to Crowley, to comfort where it wasn’t his place anymore, or worse, fix what had been broken by him in the first place.
Crowley tensed and quickly moved the plate of Eccles cakes in front of him, effectively creating an impenetrable barrier between them. It stopped Aziraphale dead in his tracks.
"I think you should leave," Crowley said as calmly as he was able to.
This is how Muriel found him: shaking and surrounded by a cloud of smoke that quickly spread though the entire street because an angel had done what he’d been told.
"Crowley?" They asked timidly. "Are you… okay?"
"Does it look like I am?" Crowley said, too worked up to even pretend he was.
"I saw Aziraphale from the window," Muriel offered. "Is… did something happen?"
It probably wasn’t good for Crowley to be talking about this just then, when he was still actively smoking. "Yeah, you could say that."
Muriel looked chastised. "I’m sorry. I thought you maybe just needed to talk to each other."
Crowley stared at them. "What?"
"I’m sorry," Muriel said again, "It’s just, you seemed to miss him and he-"
Oh that was just perfect, now everyone they’d ever talked to would apparently assume that Crowley just needed a little push to talk to Aziraphale again, as if he hadn’t bared his heart and gotten burned.
"Why does everyone keep doing that? Aziraphale made his decision, I can’t change that."
"He said he needed you," Muriel said, audibly unsure of themselves but standing their ground all the same.
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Yeah I know he did, that doesn’t change anything."
"I felt bad for him," Muriel insisted. "He seemed very nervous."
Crowley froze. A horrible, sinking feeling grew in his chest. "He what? When was this?"
"When I invited him for tea. He was a bit stressed, I think."
Aziraphale had always been a perpetually anxious being; there was almost always something that was stressing him out, so really, it shouldn’t be more than a blip. And yet…
Crowley had rescued Aziraphale from more dangerous situations that he cared to count, plenty of them completely ridiculous. He knew when his angel was in trouble, he’d never been wrong about that, ever.
"Fuck," he said.
"Shit," he added, and it was accompanied by a last puff of smoke. If only he’d had this realisation five minutes ago, while Aziraphale was still here.
Then, he grabbed Muriel by the shoulders and started walking them back into the bookshop.
"Whoa, what’s happening right now?"
Crowley smiled, but it was a grim one.
"We’re gonna rescue the supreme archangel from Heaven."