Work Text:
Pride (In The Name of Love)
It was always about love. Crowley couldn’t escape it. It was the holiday season, and love was everywhere. Whickber Street was practically vomiting Christmas decorations and twinkle lights, and if Crowley had to hear Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas Is You or even a single whistle note one more time, he was sure he would spontaneously discorporate.
As such, to avoid the commotion- and to stay warm- Crowley was curled up under throw blankets on the well-loved sofa at the heart of Aziraphale’s book shop. His hands were wrapped around a thick mug full of mulled wine. The point of the drink was as much to warm himself as it was to get comfortably numb. He stared off at nothing, his glazed-over expression and unfocussed eyes hidden behind his dark shades.
“Mr. Crowley!” A voice called from somewhere in the stacks, “May I request a hand, please?” Crowley shook his head, returning from his mind-palace to find Muriel struggling with a large cardboard box labeled “X-Mas Shit”. Crowley snickered, recognizing his own handwriting on the box. He lunged for Muriel, taking the other side of the box in his own hands. “Oh!” Muriel gasped, relieved, “Thank you, Mr. Crowley.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Crowley mumbled, relieving Muriel of the box entirely and walking past them in the direction they had come with the box. “We’re not doing this,” he muttered, “not this year.”
Stunned, Muriel followed Crowley’s path with their gaze, “Mr. Crowley, it is Christmas and I have done my research. Though someone has thought it appropriate to write a rather confusing term on the box, I do understand that X-mas means Christmas. “The ‘X’ is actually the Greek letter, Chi, which was the first letter in Christós, or Christ. Therefore, Christ-mas. And the humans celebrate it every year, I’m told. And that time is now. I’m surprised this shit is not already up!”
“I don’t need an etymology lesson,” Crowley muttered. “Though I do appreciate your correct usage of the word shit. It has nothing to do with the fact that it is Christmastime, we are just not putting up the decorations.”
Muriel made a mental note of their correct word usage, and also the word “decorations” as a synonym for the word “shit” and smiled. “I’m sorry, have I got it wrong?” Muriel said, shaking their head and bounding up behind Crowley, taking two steps for each of his single strides.
“That is quite enough with the questions,” Crowley spat, locating the empty space where the box once sat and placing it down. He brushed his hands together to rid them of invisible dust and walked past Muriel once again towards his spot on the couch. “And look, my drink has got cold.” Crowley snapped his fingers and the beverage began to steam as though freshly served.
“But you haven’t answered any of my questions!” Muriel protested, turning on their heel and scurrying over to where Crowley say, not looking up.
“Look,” Crowley began, “this bookshop. It’s… It’s not yours, and it’s not mine. We’re borrowing it. We don’t belong here and we don’t get to say when the Christmas decorations go up. He’s not here to say, so we’re just going to leave it.”
Muriel thought for a moment, “If you’re sure, Mr. Crowley,” they said, watching Crowley carefully.
The bookshop was a treasure at Christmastime. Like a scene from a movie, the bookshop would be lit up from within in a rush of crimson, gold, and the deepest, richest greens around. Flickering faux-candles could be seen adorning the frosted windows, beckoning frozen souls to take refuge and safety in the warm within and begin to thaw. The whole of Whickber Street would be twinkling and festive, but Aziraphale’s bookshop was the crown jewel at that time of year. Usually.
“I’m sure,” Crowley muttered, still not making eye contact with Muriel.
-o-
Later, Crowley awoke, still on the sofa. His forgotten mug of hot, red wine was splattered across the golden old floorboards. “Shit,” Crowley cursed, snapping his fingers to miracle away the stain and to return the mug to its former unbroken glory. It had gone dark outside and it was dark inside the shop, save for a single bulb in the end table lamp at one end of the sofa. It was quiet, but Crowley knew Muriel was about somewhere, doing something. He looked around, pulling the throw tighter around his shoulders.
Christmas was about love, Crowley thought, bitterly. Love had ruined everything. Love had taken his Angel away from him. God’s love. Crowley scowled. God had taken Aziraphale from him. A just God? God was love, Aziraphale had told Crowley more than once. Crowley wasn’t convinced. It had been a long time since Crowley had associated God with love. Not anymore.
“One man caught on a barbed wire fence. One man, he resist. One man washed up on an empty beach. One man betrayed with a kiss.”
Suddenly, a flash of blinding light- lightening?!- and a noise rivaling the decibel count of a rocketship launch ripped Crowley from his thoughts. He heard his name being spoken. Not, Crowley, but his Angel name. Crowley whipped around towards the source of the voice which spoke his name. The light, becoming more brilliant, flashed. “Hello, Xxxxxxx” the voice, the melodic voice of a woman sounded in his head. Not all around him, in his head. Crowley gaped and threw himself on the floor, instinctively. “No, Xxxxxxx, please rise. You need not kneel. You have questions. This is understandable. You always were the curious type.”
Crowley looked up, his glasses forgotten by his side on the floor. “God,” Crowley breathed.
“Some have called me that, yes. I am pleased that you still recognize my voice. You feel much sorrow, much grief. Please, tell me about it Xxxxxxx.”
Crowley shook his head. “You’re… You’re asking?”
“Of course. I have kept many eyes on you since your fall. I know the trials you have faced.” God’s voice echoed in his brain, rattling it. “I am not asking because I do not know. I am asking because I would have you lay your pain at my feet.”
“Why- why would I do that? Why would You have me tell You what You already know? Why now? Why have You come to me now to ask me to share my pain with You- this is pain You caused. You allowed this pain,” Crowley’s fear and skepticism faded and were replaced by incandescent rage and sorrow.
God spoke, “Your anger is justified, Xxxxxxx. You have known despair, my child.”
“Anger?!” Crowley laughed, bitterly, “Despair?” He spat, standing and glaring now, “This is more than despair. I am nothing. I have nothing. I am lost. I am fallen, and I am alone. And for what? I asked questions. Questions You didn’t answer. Are You telling me You will answer my questions now? I’m afraid it’s too late for that. You’ve taken everything from me. You took my life. You took my wings. And I forgave You for that. I forgave YOU. But, You took Aziraphale, You took him from me, and he was all I had, he was all I wanted, he was everything. And now, I have nothing.” A sob ripped its way out of Crowley’s throat, tears streaming down his face.
“Xxxxxxx, do you truly believe you have nothing?” God’s voice chimed in Crowley’s brain.
“Believe?” Crowley sobbed, “Oh, that’s rich. You would know.”
“You have love, Xxxxxxx.”
Crowley did not, could not respond in words. He glared at the light, unblinking, tears continuing to flow freely, as though Crowley did not register their presence. Finally, his chest heaving with the effort, “I had love and You took it.”
“I did not, Xxxxxxx. There is more to this story, but I am afraid I cannot impart the next chapter on you at this time. In time, you will see.”
“Oh, yes, of course, how very dull of me. Your plan. Your ineffable plan.” Crowley said, gritting his teeth. “Was it always Your plan to make me suffer? Have I not suffered enough for You?”
“Xxxxxxx, I did not take the Angel Aziraphale from you. He is quite well, and he misses you, too. As I have said, there is more to this story. However, I am not referencing the Angel Aziraphale when I remind you of the love you yet have.”
Crowley snorted. “Like what?”
“I am not surprised that it is hard for you to recognize the love around you, however I have placed love everywhere in your life.” God continued, apparently unphased by Crowley’s rage. “The Angel Muriel, for one, thinks of you much the way a human best friend would. They think of you first when they start their day, and you are always in their prayers. The humans, Anathema, Newton, Maggie, and Nina. They are your family. Over your life, you have interacted with countless beings, Celestial, Infernal, Human, and more, though you might not have known or recognized it. You have known the love of communities too countless to name. I cannot tell you how many more you will come to know in your years, Xxxxxxx, for you will have to remain to see them.” God continued speaking, “You have known the love of strangers. People have gone out of their way for you, sometimes you noticed and sometimes not. And as I alluded to, I am quite confident of the love you have from the Angel Aziraphale.”
Crowley continued to sob, “But will I see him again? Can You tell me?”
“When the time is right, Xxxxxxx, you will know my answer,” God said, their voice fading into the sound of bells. “You are loved more than you could know at this time. But you will know, Xxxxxxx, you will know.”
The light began to fade from the bookshop, the noise receding. Slowly, the bookshop returned to its pre-epiphany darkness. A single tinkling bell, clear and beautiful sounded in the shop. Crowley wiped his eyes, shaken, turning quickly to walk towards the front door where the bell settled above. He bent to pick up his glasses and to replace them on his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sniffling and wiping his eyes, “But we are very, very closed.”
“Crowley,” the voice said from the door, “it’s me.”
The air left Crowley’s lungs and, he thought, the entire bookshop.
“Angel,” he breathed, “You came back.” He saw the angel’s shining blue eyes, filled with tears as he stood there, covered in snow. Crowley immediately made move to close the distance between him and Aziraphale.
“I did, I came back. I’m here. I-” Aziraphale began before he was interrupted by Crowley’s kiss on his lips.
“You’re here,” Crowley sobbed, “is it really you?” Crowley clutched at Aziraphale’s lapel, looking him up and down.
“I love you, Crowley” Aziraphale finished his sentence. “Yes… It’s really me, I’m here. I love you.”
“Oh, oh my God,” Crowley began to disintegrate into sobs and tears, “I…I-I-I… I love you, Angel.” He pulled his angel towards him, burying his face in the angel’s layers, tears and melting snow staining the warn brown fabric.
“Merry Christmas, Crowley,” The angel said, embracing his demon, his fingertips blanching across Crowley’s back from the pressure placed, “I love you so much.”