Chapter Text
Crowley was going through withdrawals.
Not the alcoholic sort; he was certainly drinking quite enough alcohol. The bottles scattered around the bookshop proved that point quite well, a few of them seemingly smashed in a fit of fiery rage.
No, Crowley was going through a different sort of withdrawal. An emotional one. The kind that leaves an aching hole in your heart where something important used to be. Or someone important.
Crowley studied the bottle in his hand with weary eyes, barely able to make out the label through his drunken haze. He was slumped in a chair at the bookshop’s desk, books scattered around him like fallen feathers. The weather outside was teetering on the edge of a nasty thunderstorm, dark clouds snarling at the horizon and sending nervous tourists back to wherever they hid at night. Crowley had been getting better at controlling the weather, it seemed.
He let out a grumble, setting the bottle on the table forcefully enough to rattle the candle sitting on it. Crowley’s hand quickly shot out and steadied it, remembering what had happened the last time a candle had fallen over in the bookshop. He sighed and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes, the familiar thoughts that had been plaguing him for the last two weeks creeping like vines at the edges of his mind. He snarled, slamming a hand on the desk and getting to his feet, snuffing out the candle with his fingers.
“Mr. Crowley?”
The demon jumped, spinning around to see Muriel standing at the door, holding their cap in their hands. He hadn’t heard them enter- (Muriel did not ever pay heed to the ‘EXTREMELY, 100%, DEFINITELY CLOSED’ sign on the door). “Hello, sir,” they said pleasantly, smiling. “How are you doing today?” Crowley hesitated, mouth falling into a scowl. “Fine,” he bit out, not meeting Muriel’s eyes. Muriel tilted their head, eyebrows drawing together. “Sarcasm, sir?” they asked after a moment, and Crowley let out a bitter scoff of a laugh. “You learn faster than most angels,” he replied, and Muriel grinned. “Thank you, Mr. Crowley.”
Crowley pulled a chair out from beside the desk, brushing the loose papers off of the seat and motioning for Muriel to take a seat. Muriel beamed and sat down, watching as Crowley dropped himself into the chair across from them. “So,” Muriel said, pulling out their clipboard, “any word from Aziraphale?” Crowley sighed, a slight growl in his throat as he grabbed his glasses from the desk and put them back on. “What do you think, Muriel,” he said tersely, cocking his head at the angel. Muriel’s smile fell a bit, and they set their clipboard down. “I’m certain you’ll make up eventually, Mr. Crowley, I’m sure of it!” Muriel encouraged, having no idea the magnitude of the situation they were discussing. “You and Mr. Fell were so incredibly close, and from what I’ve heard of human relationships, most bonds like that don’t go so easily broken.” Crowley wrinkled his nose, lifting an eyebrow. “Well, for starters, neither me or Mr. Fell are human,” he snorted. “And what on earth do you mean, relationship? We weren’t in- it was nothing like that, for hell’s sake.” Muriel’s smile fell completely at Crowley’s stern, defensive tone of voice. “Oh- oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to insult you. I just meant- your…bond with Aziraphale is much like the human ones I’ve been studying. And when humans have a disagreement, they talk to each other about their feelings! And it fixes everything!” Muriel’s wide grin suggested to Crowley that the angel really thought he and Aziraphale could just talk about what had happened between them and it would fix everything instantly.
Six thousand years of talking couldn’t fix what happened to us.
“Muriel.” Crowley took a deep breath and sat forwards, resting one of his arms on his knee. “What happened between us is beyond just talking about. Aziraphale chose heaven over- over the world, over me, over us, and that was his choice. He left me, and I have no intention of- of running after him.” Rage was swirling at the edges of his mind, drowning out his sensible thoughts. “If he’d learned anything from what we’ve been through over the last six thousand years, he would have stayed! He wouldn’t have run back to Heaven like a child runs back to its mother, like a coward. He would have stayed with me and braved whatever we had to go through to be together.” He paused, taking a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut under his glasses to push down the tears rimming his eyes. “That’s what I was willing to do.” He pushed his hair back, inhaling sharply. “And if Aziraphale wasn’t willing to do the same, then so be it.”
Muriel was looking at Crowley with a look that the demon hated, and that he had learned to hate even more over the last two weeks. Pity. “Oh, Mr. Crowley…I’m sure Aziraphale would have stayed with you if he didn’t think going back to Heaven was what you wanted.” Crowley slammed his foot down, causing Muriel to jump, their eyes widening. “Aziraphale knew I would never want to go back to Heaven- he knew that! He knows how much I hate having to choose sides. I tried to make it so he didn’t have to choose sides. But he did anyway.”
Crowley sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers underneath his glasses. “Look, Muriel, it’s only been two weeks since he’s left. I’ve gone without him for much longer. Decades. And I’ve been fine. This is just…another one of our dry spells.” He picked up a bottle from the desk and took a long drink from it, setting it down again with a sharp exhale. “But…this doesn’t seem the same, sir,” Muriel said hesitantly, and Crowley fixed his drunken eyes on them, yellow irises glinting dangerously. “I mean, you and Aziraphale…” A smile rose to their face again. “You seem so bright together. Like a stubborn old star that refuses to go out.” Crowley’s gaze softened under the lenses of his glasses, mind immediately flashing back to the first time he and Aziraphale had met, both so full of light. The day Alpha Centauri was born. Born of their light. The tears came back again, diamond drops falling just far enough out of the veil of his glasses for Muriel to see. “Well,” he replied, voice wavering slightly, “that fight might have been our supernova.” Muriel’s hopeful smile fell, replaced by an expression of sympathy that reminded Crowley so much of Aziraphale that it felt like someone was ripping a hole through his spirit. “I see,” they replied softly, getting to their feet. They put their hat back on, miracling their clipboard away. “I apologize for the intrusion, Mr. Crowley. I’ll leave you now.” They bowed, and before Crowley could protest, pushed open the door and disappeared into the busy streets of Soho.
Crowley hissed quietly to himself, ripping off his glasses and swiping angrily at the tears sliding down his face. He used to only get this emotional when he was drunk, but now, after what had happened, this whole “crying” thing was happening more often. The first time it had happened when he was sober was right after he’d left the bookshop, the ghostlike feeling of Aziraphale’s lips still fresh on his own. He’d just drove and drove and drove until the Bentley had made him stop, sputtering to a halt somewhere in the countryside. Crowley had cursed the car, punching the wheel, before finally collapsing over the dashboard and letting the waves of sorrow crash over him. He’d thrown his glasses at the windshield, shattering the lenses and scattering black glass across the car, reflecting back at him a thousand broken faces. He’d watched the first tear fall in those reflections, a single crystal dripping down his face, and he’d thought, This is it. I’ve broken. I wasn’t good enough for Heaven, and I wasn’t bad enough for Hell, and I just wasn’t enough for Aziraphale.
And he had let himself break.
The tears coming now were nothing like the bone-wracking sobs from that fateful night, but they were equally painful. Hearing someone put his and Aziraphale’s…partnership into words so perfectly made him want to drag the Heavens down to earth and grab Aziraphale and never let him go. As much as he denied it, and how much he hated Aziraphale for what he did, he couldn’t ever say he didn’t want the angel to come running through the bookshop doors and fix everything without lying to himself.
He rubbed the tears out of his eyes, inhaling sharply, and got to his feet. “Enough wallowing,” he grunted, wiping the lenses of his glasses and putting them back on. “This place is a mess.” He hadn’t cleaned in a few days, which was bugging him; Aziraphale’s desire to keep the bookshop neat as a pin must have rubbed off on him at some point. So he set to work cleaning, putting away all the empty bottles, sweeping the floors, trying his best to organize the books (he was not about to try and order them like Jim- Gabriel had).
As he was dealing with a huge pile of seemingly neglected books Jim had left in the back before he became Gabriel again, grunting as he lifted the stacks off the floor to separate them, he saw something on the floor that he immediately recognized. His breath caught in his throat, and he slowly pulled it out from under the books, careful not to rip it. Sitting in his hands were the original plans for the nebula he’d made. His plans for his nebula. He kept them? He was trying to be exceedingly careful as he pulled the scroll out further; he knew most angel-created objects couldn’t be destroyed by normal means of breaking an object, but that was in Heaven. He had no idea on how the rules applied on earth.
He ran his hand over the intricate markings, the magic glowing slightly under his fingertips like a soft, tranquil heartbeat. “Why does he have this?” he muttered to himself. He remembered handing the scroll to Aziraphale after he’d cranked the whole thing up, but he didn’t remember what the angel had done after. “He must have taken it with him when he left…” Crowley said quietly, expression softening as he realized what that meant. “He’s had this for millions of years. He kept my creation safe for millions of years.” His eyebrows knit together as he remembered something. “How in hell did it survive the fire?” he thought aloud, brushing dust off of the paper. But as he did so, as his skin met the centre of the blueprint, the golden markings sprung to life, turning just as they had all those millennials ago. “What the-“ Crowley quickly dropped the blueprints on the floor, fear glinting in his eyes, as he watched the markings chug. To Crowley’s surprise, the nebula clicked back into the exact place it had been before. The demon hesitantly picked it up again, noticing that a new star group had been added; three stars, huddled close together, still glowing faintly. Crowley’s eyes widened, capturing the golden flickers of magic in his yellow irises. “Alpha Centauri,” he said softly. “It’s on the map.” He felt the stubborn tears coming back; they never seemed to be far away these days. “Curse you, universe,” he breathed shakily, shoving the blueprint back into a shelf angrily. “Why? Why must you remind me of him EVERY SINGLE DAY!” His voice rose to a frustrated, exhausted roar, his anger pouring out of him and echoing around the bookshop. He didn’t doubt that people outside the bookshop, walking the streets of Soho, had heard his cries. “I don’t need him, no matter how much you try to tell me I do. He CLEARLY didn’t need me!” Crowley knew he was lying. He remembered, clear as a bell, Aziraphale’s broken voice as he had cried out to Crowley that he needed him. And Crowley knew he needed Aziraphale like he needed the world and the universe and everything.
“Enough of this nonsense,” he growled, shoving the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I’m going to bed.”
Crying wasn’t the only human trait he’d picked up over the last two weeks. Crowley had personally never slept before a couple weeks ago; he hadn’t even heard of it until he had been travelling with Aziraphale in the newly liberated country of America, in 1781. They’d arrived at the site of the historical Battle of Yorktown, and as they’d looked out over the field of downed soldiers and thousands of British men being taken as prisoners, Crowley had scowled and said, “Ah, bugger. We’ve missed the fighting?” Aziraphale had looked at Crowley incredulously and exclaimed, “That’s what you’re worried about right now? There’s a field of starving and wounded soldiers out here and you’re worried about missing the fighting?!” Crowley had shrugged, giving Aziraphale a slight smirk. “You seem upset by the fighting, angel. But isn’t it for a good cause? The people of the United States of America are now free from the British. Isn’t that what your lot wanted?” He had known exactly what he was doing; making Aziraphale question his loyalty to Heaven. He’d had the same thing happen to him with Hell, so it had been easy enough to target what had made his loyalty waver and pass that onto Aziraphale. After all, they had been practically on their own side by that point.
Aziraphale had given Crowley a narrow-eyed look. “I know what you’re doing, Crowley, and it won’t work. Heaven’s decisions are not up to me; I simply just carry out my orders.” He had given Crowley another stern look. “As you should be doing for Hell. Not fraternizing with me.” Crowley had scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh come on, we both know you’d just try to stop me from doing what Hell tells me anyway. And, bonus, bothering you constantly while you try to do your job is much more enjoyable.” He’d nudged Aziraphale’s shoulder, much to the angel’s annoyance. “And you’re fraternizing just as much as I am, angel.” Aziraphale had stayed quiet, seemingly not wanting to discuss the topic any further. Or maybe he had just given up on arguing with Crowley.
“Humans seem to die a lot.”
Aziraphale had let out a surprised, choked sounding gasp. “I beg your pardon?” the angel had said incredulously, turning to Crowley with wide, grey-blue eyes. “I mean, humans tend to die exceedingly often,” Crowley explained, gesturing to the battlefield. “Especially at night. I was overseeing a tempting a couple hundred years ago, watching some young demons try to persuade a young boy into setting his rival’s family’s crops on fire or something to that effect, and when I looked inside the houses, everyone inside was dead. All laying on these strange platforms all covered in cloth. No doubt some weird offering; humans seem to go to quite great and strange lengths to be let into Heaven when they die.”
Aziraphale had looked at Crowley as if he’d just told the angel that the Heavens had fallen.
“Crowley…they weren’t dead!” Aziraphale had laughed, a grin splitting across his face. “That’s sleeping! Most of the time humans sleep during the night to…recharge for the next day. Otherwise, if they don’t, they become exhausted and lethargic, and then die, eventually. It’s like going unconscious for hours on end, but on purpose. They look quite peaceful while they do it as well, which is nice.” Crowley gawked at Aziraphale, appalled. “You mean to tell me they aren’t just dying spontaneously at night and offering themselves to God?” he cried, putting a hand to his forehead. Aziraphale giggled, shaking his head. “You mean to tell me that for thousands of years, you’ve thought that humans die every night? How would there be any left if that was true?” Crowley had thrown his hands up in the air defensively, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment. “I just assumed your side brought them back to life, I don’t know!” Aziraphale had snickered, lifting an eyebrow at Crowley. “I feel as though I should find this rather offensive that you don’t know what sleeping is, seeing as I was the main driving force behind inventing it in the Garden of Eden days. Eve just seemed so exhausted one night from all the fighting and nonsense, and I thought ‘well we need a way to fix that!’”
Crowley had gaped at the angel, stunned into silence. “You invented- oh, what am I saying, of course you invented sleeping,” he had corrected, rolling his eyes with a scoff. Aziraphale had scowled at the demon, eyebrows furrowing together. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?” he had demanded, crossing his arms and pouting in a way that was akin to a toddler being told they were not allowed a sweet. Crowley had resisted the urge to laugh, and instead settled for a wry smile. “It just seems like such a soft, lovey-dovey solution to human suffering that I would completely expect from a soft, lovey-dovey angel like you, angel.” Aziraphale had wrinkled his nose, although Crowley could have sworn he saw a hint of a rosey-red blush rising to his face. “I feel as though I should find that offensive,” Aziraphale had said, lifting his chin at the demon. Crowley had barked a laugh, patting Aziraphale on the shoulder. “Ah, don’t take offense, angel. Merely messing with you.” Aziraphale had heaved a long sigh, one that spoke of the centuries of Crowley’s endless infuriating wit he’d had to deal with. After all this time, Crowley hadn’t forgotten about how even though Aziraphale had turned away from the demon then, a small, gentle smile had been sitting on his lips, his cheeks still glowing a light shade of pink.
It had taken some time for Crowley to get used to looking into human’s windows at night and registering that they were not in fact dead, merely “sleeping”. He had refused to try it for decades, shivering at the thought of doing something deemed mortal. But then, one late night sometime in the mid-nineteenth century, he’d thought of stopping by Aziraphale’s bookshop for a quick drink with the angel. Guided by the yellow beams of the dim streetlights, he’d knocked on the door, to no avail. Strange, Crowley had thought, brow creasing, he’s always up for a spot of wine with me. And he always at least answers the door. He’d stooped down and peered through the mail slot, scanning the dark bookshop for any sign of Aziraphale. “Angel?” he’d called, his voice echoing in the shop. No answer. A spark of concern had flickered to life in his chest, and he’d decided to miracle the door open, snapping so that the heavy doors swung inwards (admittedly with more aggression than he had intended). He’d entered the bookshop, which had been oddly silent. “Angel?” he’d tried again, the doors closing behind him a little more gently than they’d opened. “I’ve brought wine.” He had looked around the bookshop, concern growing with each snuffed out candle and unfinished book he saw. “Aziraphale?” he had repeated, trying one more time. “Are you here-“ As he’d rounded a corner, his heart had stopped in his chest and dropped to the floor, his eyes widening.
Aziraphale was slumped over at his desk, reading glasses still on his too-peaceful face, not moving. “Oh, ssssshit,” he had hissed, his snake-like speech patterns sneaking into his voice as they often did when he was stressed. He had ripped off his glasses, rushing over to Aziraphale, the strange feeling of pure dread rushing through him like a sudden unwanted snowstorm. “Aziraphale!” Crowley had cried quietly, crouching down to study the angel’s face. “I swear to the heavens, if someone discorporated you-“ His expression slowly turned from worry to slight confusion as he had looked more closely at Aziraphale’s face. “Wait a minute…” he’d said, squinting at how Aziraphale’s back was rising and falling softly as if he was breathing, his eyes gently closed instead of hanging open as is was the case with most dead bodies. Aziraphale’s voice from nearly a century ago rang in his head; ‘I was the driving force behind inventing it in the Garden of Eden.’
Crowley had rocked back onto his feet, groaning. “Sleeping. Of course you’ve given me a heart attack by trying out your own invention.” He’d leaned a bit closer again, transfixed by the peaceful look on Aziraphale’s face. “Do humans look this tranquil when they sleep?” he’d commented softly, tilting his head to look at Aziraphale’s closed eyes and slightly raised lips, a hint of his dimples on his cheeks. “And so…” He’d mindlessly reached a hand out to cup the angel’s face, and it was only when Crowley’s fingers made contact with Aziraphale’s soft skin that he had been snapped out of his trance-like state. He had reeled backwards, overcome with strange emotions, the spot where he’d touched Aziraphale’s face still buzzing on his fingertips as if grazed by magic. “Silly angel,” he had said gruffly, getting to his feet. “Aren’t humans supposed to sleep in beds? He should know this, he literally invented it.” Crowley had rolled his eyes, snapping his fingers, and a bed had appeared beside the desk, swathed in fluffy beige blankets and downy pillows. A bit more extravagant than what I’d intended. He had looked from Aziraphale sleeping in the chair to the bed about five feet away, suddenly realizing his new dilemma. “I suppose I could miracle him in,” he had thought aloud, scowling, “but I might wake him. I’ve heard that humans tend to be quite fussy if you wake them from sleeping, so I don’t want to find out how Aziraphale would react.” His cheeks went a little red as he realized another possibility; the only other possibility. “I…I could just-“ He hooked his arms gently underneath Aziraphale’s back and legs, grunting as he lifted him up. Aziraphale made a tiny noise, almost like the coo of a dove, and his head lulled to rest on Crowley’s chest, golden-white curls spilling onto dark fabric. The demon’s face had lit up a fiercely bright red, those weird feelings from earlier returning with a vengeance and swirling beneath his skin, almost like they were going to jump from him to Aziraphale like a bolt of electricity. Crowley had stared down at the angel, fear and something else he didn’t dare put a name to glinting in his eyes. “Right, okay, then I just…” He had hobbled over to the bed, scarcely breathing as to not wake the angel in his arms. “…put him…down…” he’d said, his voice barely above a raspy whisper. He had laid Aziraphale down on the bed, letting his head fall from Crowley’s chest to the pillow. The angel had shifted and stirred a bit, and Crowley almost fled in fear, exhaling softly when he’d stopped moving and laid still on the bed, a single beam of moonlight shining across his face. Crowley had gulped nervously, a burning, visceral want searing beneath his skin. A want he had desperately been ignoring for thousands of years, but steadily got worse, the more he tried to deny it. He had shook his head, getting up, tearing his eyes away from Aziraphale. He had left soon after that, leaving the bottle of wine next to Aziraphale on his desk. He had quite enough wine back at his flat to drink himself senseless for the next few hours, which was just what he did.
He had to use something to drown out the lasting fire he felt in his heart.
Ever since that day, Crowley had only tried sleep on a few occasions, when he didn’t feel like dealing with the world (he wished he had heard about sleeping during the fourteenth century and just slept through the whole boring thing). But now, because of recent events, he had turned to sleeping as a way to escape the constant presence of a certain angel in his mind. He trudged to the back room he’d made himself, a modest room that was a bit of a replica to his flat. Mottled grey walls, plants everywhere, and a very extravagant bed in the corner that reminded him a bit of his old chair in his office. He collapsed onto the silk sheets, not even bothering to take off his clothes. Curling himself into a ball, he pulled the covers over himself and fell asleep, his last waking thoughts plagued with stars and blue-grey eyes and white feathers.
Alcohol was intoxicating, but nowhere near a substitute for how intoxicating the taste of Aziraphale’s lips had been.
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