Chapter Text
Through the accounts of history, Crowley had left his mark. Given his flair for the dramatic, it was to be expected. Often he had found himself enjoying the lavish tales while sat at a bar or in a tavern, mostly because of a certain someone going off at him about how he’d supposedly caused a riot against Henry VIII.
But what fun was there to captivating stories being told about you when there was no one left to gape at you? When it only served as a reminder that you were alone?
Nowadays, he didn’t even have to tempt anyone anymore. The other demons had finally buggered off and left him alone. He still tripped up some blokes when they looked at him funny, though.
Hell, two months after someone-who-shall-not-be-named left him to rot on this floating pebble, he’d gone all out and caused some trouble that the Morning Star would’ve been proud of, to erase every last spec of nauseating sweetness from the streets of London. But even that, even the very best he could do, had not been enough to earn him a moment’s peace.
The growing misery only reminded him of the angel, the memories nagging him even in his dreams. After that he’d taken to finding solace on the bottom of a bottle.
Crowley had thought about leaving London, even tried it once or twice, but the Bentley had made quick work of that. She’d refused to even leave the M-25. Things had come to the point where he was being micro-managed by his own car, like a toddler on a leash. It was truly a new kind of low.
At least the ducks at the pond had gotten used to his grumpiness. They knew that there was always crumbs to be won, even if they had to dodge them first. He had tried to find a new flock, one that didn’t look confused at the absence at his side, only to discover there weren’t many left. When you live in a certain area for over two hundred years, you tend to become pretty well-known with the locals, and a duck was much harder to fool with a haircut than most humans.
Even if he found a new spot, he doubted it would be worthy of a good sulk. That bastard had ruined all the most stunning spots for him. A part of him couldn’t help but wonder if they had been stunning only because he had been there. It might’ve been a weird angelic thing where his wholly-holiness rubbed off on everything around him. The kind where flowers popped up out of nowhere and birds chirped harmonious melodies.
Or maybe, another part of him wondered, the angel had been the only beautiful thing about them.
He tried to suppress that thought as he watched to particularly courageous ducks fight over his breadcrumbs. Part of him knew he should be feeding them frozen peas instead, but they never liked food quite the same when it was good for them.
The chill in the air was becoming more noticeable now that the sun had set, which his snake traits weren’t particularly enjoying. He’d sat down on that bench when the sun had been directly above it and hadn’t moved since.
The only reason he got up before closing time was because his thoughts were suddenly, very rudely interrupted by Beethoven’s fifth symphony blasting at full volume from the entrance gate. Within a second Crowley was bolting towards the parking spots, pulling open the car doors and slamming his fist against the radio to shut it up.
“What on Earth do you think you’re doing, eh? Are you that desperate to return to the car dealer?!” Most people walking down the street were looking at Crowley like he was going mad. He himself was still contemplating it.
Crowley got inside and shut the car door. “One more classical piece from you and they’ll be using your hood for a toaster! Why do you want my attention so badly anyway?”
Her response was an irritated click of the door locks.
“Awh, c’mon now! I wasn’t out there for that long, was I?”
Her engine roared in disagreement.
Crowley wasn’t sure where she’d gotten the sour personality from. He had come to the conclusion that it must’ve been a demonic-energy-radiation thingy he’d caused passively. Something similar to how the bookshop seemed equally as unwelcoming of customers as its owner.
It wasn’t long before they were racing down the main road at top speed, barely avoiding crashing into the side of a Ford Fiesta.
For the first time in months, Crowley buckled his seatbelt. “Ngk! What are you doing?”
It wasn’t that Crowley was against a bit of speeding, not at all, but he didn’t appreciate being thrown around like a rag doll.
All he could do was look out the window to work out what his rogue car was up to. It took him an embarrassing amount of time before he realized they’d driven this road countless times before.
“Wait-” he choked out. “What are you doing?! Why are we in Soho?!” He knew damn well why, he just didn’t want it to be true. “You’re going to the dump, I swear it! I’m not going back there, you hear me?!”
Crowley immediately grabbed the steering wheel. He would rather swerve straight into a tree than drive by that wrenched bookshop. But not only did the wheel not budge, the leather hand grips turned yellow under his grip. It was bright and obnoxious, cheerful, warm and intrusive. All the qualities he had repressed to the depths of his being, yet they found their way back to the surface every time.
His fingers shot away from the leather as if it were drenched in holy water. There was a part of him that wanted to shout at the dashboard until she turned it back. The Bentley was all too aware of how low of a blow this was, but that didn’t matter to her as long as it kept him still.
Crowley covered his eyes in an attempt to avoid it all together. He was trapped and all he could do was fume as he felt his last sliver of composure slip away.
He knew they were at the bookshop the moment the engine died, but he refused to even lift his head from his hands. That would mean that she won, but more importantly, that he would have to face what was out there.
The bookshop where he’d spent so many drunk nights rattling on about things that didn’t matter, of which the blinds were now closed. Not because the angel wanted to defend his hoard from all the pesky little humans, but because there was nothing left to look at. All because Aziraphale was gone and their times together were over.
As long as he didn’t look, he could still remain ignorant. Yet despite the his best efforts, whatever was going on outside began to puncture his carefully-crafted bubble. He could sense the shock and confusion from the passerby, which was not the mix he had been expecting.
It lured him in and so he looked up, and what he saw rivalled the memory of the bookshop aflame. It might’ve been worse in a way, because while it had burned he had at least been able to try to stop it.
Now all he could do was gape at the shattered windows and scorched sills, through which he could barely make up the destruction inside. The angel’s pride and joy, the collection he’d spent millennia building, the only place where they hadn’t had to worry about everything that lurked outside, the last remnants of what they’d had, had been completely destroyed.
But no matter how much he stared, the image wouldn’t sink in. His snake brain refused to wrap around it, yet one thought was rapidly taking over every fibre of his being.
Whoever had destroyed Aziraphale’s bookshop would face a fate worse than death, by Crowley’s hands.